


Fate Comes on Dark Wings

by fiveclawedfics



Series: Livejournal refugees [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Canon Universe, Cross-Dimensional Travelling, Fic starts during 2.13, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Written in 2012, alternative universe, deafness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 11:10:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10695804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveclawedfics/pseuds/fiveclawedfics
Summary: "Alright. Let me get this straight. You're an angel. From the future. From another universe.""That's right."A Castiel from another, darker universe crash lands into the Winchesters' lives half-way through Season 2.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This prologue is bloodier than the rest, so consider this a single-chapter content warning. Expect mentions and descriptions of torture and apocalyptic battlefields.

Five days, seventeen hours, and twenty-one minutes since Mérida. Castiel looked up as the door to his cell swung open, sky shining in. This was it. The demons were coming to put him up on the rack. He was just surprised they hadn't gone to work on him sooner. Whatever they did, Castiel told himself, it could never be as bad as his punishment in Heaven. Besides, Dean would surely come for him one day.  
  
The raw, overwhelming power of an archangel filled the air. Lucifer himself stepped into the room, a faint smile playing at his lips. "You're the one, right? Castiel, who split the Host in two."  
  
Castiel stared at his visitor in shock. It took him a few moments to realize Lucifer's intentions. Captured angels had been spotted later fighting for the forces of Hell. "The answer is no," he ground out.  
  
"I thought you might say that." Lucifer cocked his head, a much put-upon brother dealing with a recalcitrant younger sibling. "Fly with me, Castiel."  
  
The place they landed in seemed like a picture from the days Before, when humans fought only each other and a handful of hunters were enough to defend against the monsters lingering in the dark. Now the forces unleashed by the Apocalypse warped the planet itself, shattering the land with earthquakes, floods, fiery rains, blight, and numerous other calamities. But this land was green and beautiful, all sharp peaks piercing the skies, forests painting the slopes. Castiel stretched his consciousness out for hundreds of miles and found only animals. "Three hundred thousand people used to live here."  
  
"Do you remember," Lucifer said as he looked over the Appalachians, "how humans tore up these mountains looking for coal? By the time I escaped, they'd begun to blow up the peaks to find new seams."  
  
"Three hundred thousand people," Castiel repeated. "How much of the Eastern Seaboard did you destroy?"  
  
"Destroy? I fixed it. I'm restoring Creation."  
  
"Bullshit," Castiel snapped, surprising himself with his idiotic bravery. "Your armies are destroying the world!"  
  
"The demons are a means to an end. I'll deal with them when the time comes." Lucifer leaned in, pulled Castiel around to look him in the eye. "I understand, brother. Dean Winchester is an extraordinary human. Your loyalty to him is commendable. But the rest of the species..." He shrugged dismissively. "No other creature in Creation is as greedy and shortsighted. They would have destroyed themselves in a few generations anyway and taken the planet with them."  
  
"They learn," Castiel insisted. "Our Father created them to grow and evolve in a way unlike any other animal. It has been only a few thousand years since the start of human civilization and already they are exploring the stuff of the cosmos. Well, _were_ exploring."  
  
Lucifer laughed. "Really, Castiel? You're making theological arguments to _me_? I was by our Father's side when he created humanity and I can tell you, He said no such thing."  
  
"The meaning is evident in His actions."  
  
"Mm. You were more of a philosopher than a soldier before the war, weren't you." Castiel tried to pull away, but Lucifer held him tightly. "I am offering you a chance, brother. Join me. I will even preserve Dean Winchester for you."  
  
"The answer is no," Castiel repeated.  
  
"I see."  
  
After they flew back to Philadelphia, Lucifer pressed Castiel's vessel against a wall, reached into the very stuff of him, and ripped out his wings. "We'll talk again when these grow back," he said, and vanished.  
  
Castiel screamed and screamed.

 

 

* * *

 

Lucifer visited him twice more. The answer remained no.

 

* * *

 

"You're a tough nut to crack, aren't you," Sam said, almost conversationally. "Almost two years and you haven't even begun to break." He ruffled Castiel's hair. "Lucifer is...annoyed. He wants you fighting for us. You're a symbol." Fingers closing painfully tight in his hair, and then Sam yanked him upright to lean and close and murmur in his ear. "You need to be destroyed." At the best of times, Castiel was weaker than Sam Winchester; now, weakened by the wards engraved in the cell walls, he found the power spilling from the Antichrist almost suffocating. "I'd rather decorate this city with your intestines, but I have to admit, the look on Dean's face when he sees you flying for us..." Sam released Castiel, eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy at the thought.

"You know, Sam," Castiel said, "Every time Lucifer comes to make his offer, he always spends time talking. A lot of it is arguing, but really, he just wants a conversation. Maybe it's just me, but I'm guessing he gives the other angels similar treatment." Sam's eyes snapped open. Castiel gave him a small, sly smile. "He wants to be with his own kind. If he wins, you'll be the first to go. You're the worst of humanity. You're what he hates the most."

Sam scowled--then grinned, bright and wide and playful. With a flick of his wrist, he lifted Castiel into the air and slammed him against the wards. Castiel bit back a cry of pain--he'd scream for the demons, but not for this bastard. "Did you really take me for a bitch? After all this time?" he laughed. The stink of his own flesh burning filled Castiel's nostrils. After a few more agonizing moments, the power holding him in place vanished, and he fell to the ground with a thump. And then Sam loomed up before his eyes, bending over with a serrated knife in his hands. This close, Castiel could make out the Enochian runes engraved into the metal. "I figure the demons here have been getting lazy," Sam hissed. "It's so easy to break an angel. Wake up the vessel and--" He dragged the knife across Castiel's belly, reached in, and pulled out the innards. "--go to town. I wish I could hear the angels' screams, but they do beg so prettily afterward.

"But you--you don't have anyone else in there with you. You're wearing a glorified fucktoy. That's right, I know exactly what your siblings did to you," he smirked at the look on Castiel's face. "How Dean got you out of Heaven. The other angels were more than happy to explain after they switched sides."

Castiel tried to turn away, see anywhere but Sam, the very last person he wanted to know about his punishment. Sam gripped his chin, held him in place. "You don't get to look away," he cooed, like a parent calming a child. "You're going to look me in the eye while I cut you up and then I'm going to find out what _really_ hurts you." A flash of the knife opened his jugular; another two severed the tendons in his arms. "I'm guessing I'll have to do something about the layout on your chest." And this time, Castiel did scream as the flesh of his chest peeled away, feeling the ties binding him to this body waver ever so slightly. "Jackpot." Sam grinned. "I've got a couple of weeks to burn. I got time to be creative."

 

* * *

 

The first explosion shook the foundations of the prison; the next three brought the building tumbling down. Castiel curled into a ball as his cell collapsed around him, his heart leaping in his chest. Dean was coming. It hurt a bit, to be buried beneath the rubble, but after a month in Sam's hands the pain was inconsequential. With the wards broken, his Grace swelled within him, giving him the power to dig himself out of rocks pinning him to the floor.

When he broke through to stare out into the sunshine for the first time in two years, he found a group of humans digging desperately at the rocks, dragging other angels out. Two of his siblings flung the rubble aside as well, but another three crouched down, staring at nothing. One had left his vessel trembling on the ground; Castiel could sense him battering mindlessly against the wards around the city, thoroughly mad.

Around them was chaos. Shells flew through the air, some flaming up and exploding as they hit the wards surrounding Philadelphia. The sky crackled with power in the far distance, dust storms billowing against what appeared to be a large, invisible wall. His siblings, he realized.

A human ran to his side as he pushed the last of the stones away to pull him upright. She and her friends wore rags, Castiel noticed. Not soldiers, then, just slaves imprisoned in the closest approximation of Hell on earth. He wondered how they managed to make explosives. "What's going on?" he asked his new friend.

"Lotta prisoners coming in, these last couple of months," the human explained. "Said the Americans was moving up the Eastern Seaboard, had a foothold down in Florida. We figured when the army came to Philadelphia, we could break out in the chaos if we got the angels free. But these guys--" She shrugged helplessly.

"They've been under the knife since they came here," Castiel snapped.

"Yeah? I been here more than four years and I ain't broken. Soldiers of God my ass!"

Castiel shook his head against her bitterness, too tired to deal with the intricacies of human emotions at the moment. He moved to crouch down next to his siblings. "Tophiel," he said to the nearest in Enochian. "Tophiel, we need to go back to work."

Tophiel raised her face to look at him with glassy eyes. "--My vessel," she said after a pause. "My vessel has gone insane." She curled her fingers in her hair, scratched and pulled at her scalp. "She is screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming--I can't make her sleep!" The despair hung heavy in her voice.

Castiel wrapped his arms around her "Think of the demons," he murmured in her ear, and Tophiel moaned. "They're coming back, Tophiel." She trembled against him. "They're going to hurt you, and they're going to hurt your vessel--what's her name?"

"Amira al-Husseini."

"Are you going to let the demons hurt her again?"

"I--I can't. Can't fight. The wards, I'm too weak--"

"You know that's not true. Feel me, sister." He reached out for her with his true body, pressed his Grace against her until she responded. "We are free and we are going to make these sons of bitches _pay_ for what they did. Get angry, Tophiel. Think of the oaths we swore when Lucifer twisted the first woman into the first of these abominations."

"Oaths, yeah, that's rich, coming from you," she muttered, and he knew he had her. As the others dug more angels out, Castiel moved from Tophiel to Uzzah and then Azariel, and Buraqil, Dumah, Munkar, Raziel, cajoling his siblings back onto their feet. The seconds slid by as they worked. With the angels' assistance, the humans would be able to free everyone from the rubble in a few minutes, but any moment now the demons would sense their escape.

And then the sky _rippled_ , exploding a moment later into a dome of fire. "The defenses are falling!" one of the humans shouted over the roar of the flames. Ashes began to fall gently like snow. Lightning danced through the fire. "We gotta get out of here before the whole place gets torched!" He coughed and scrubbed soot from his eyes. The ever-present stench of sulfur began to thicken. As one, the group broke into a run.

They made as far as the occupied parts of town.

Black smoke blocked out the sky, lancing down into the terrified slaves swarming below. The demons smashed humans against the walls, broke necks, slashed open stomachs, hamstrung and decapitated. _Scorched earth tactics_ , Castiel thought. He went to work.

None of them had the strength to burn the filth, but they were still angels, and these demons were cannon fodder possessing unarmed humans. It was simplicity to pin a line of demons against a wall and give them a proper exorcism. And then, one by one, the demons fled their hosts, leaving only humans and angels in the streets. They'd won.

"There are tunnels below the city," Tsadkiel said. "Those rebels are moving through them."

"The way out?"

"Must be, or the closest thing we've got. There's an entrance about a mile away--"

The ground ripped open, spewing hellfire. As the fire incinerated humans and angels alike, Castiel manifested his wings, seized the two nearest bodies, and leaped into the air. Landing on a building on the outskirts of old Philadelphia, he released the two he had rescued, turned to go back into the inferno--and fell to his knees, too terrified to move. This maddened escape, the power warping the sky, the spells ripping the city apart--Castiel folded away his wings and trembled.

"They didn't take your wings?" Uzzah. He'd rescued Uzzah. And a human.

"They've grown back. It's almost time for Lucifer to rip them out again." Castiel willed himself to his feet. "I need to go back," he muttered, as much to himself as to the other two. He perched on the roof's edge, gathering his strength to return.

A familiar figure appeared with a pop in the street.

Force wrapped around him, slammed him hard against the opposite building and then to the street. A boot ground his face into the cracked asphalt. "Clean up duty," Sam drawled. "Real pain in the ass." He grasped Castiel by the throat and lifted him into the air. "Well, at least I get to kill you." He dug his fingers into the sigil layout and began chanting in Enochian. Magic bound Castiel's true self, began to _pull_ , and blessed Father the _pain_ \--

\--With a large crack, the skyfire vanished; the sound of breaking glass filled the air as the barriers shattered. Stunned, Sam broke off the chant, and the spell unraveled. Castiel flung himself back, flapping his wings wildly to port out of Philadelphia.

But something went wrong. Perhaps Sam's spell skewed his direction. It felt like drilling straight through the walls of the worlds. Like sinking through very thick, crushing metaphorical gel. And then something snapped, and Castiel fell through.

Into nothing.

Less than nothing, even--more like the negative of existence. Floating in the _negation_ , Castiel wondered if he had died. But then he sensed the glimmers of prayers and messages and spells rushing past him. This was an important discovery, he realized. Finding prayers and seeking revelation came as naturally to angels as breathing did to humans--so naturally that no one had ever really bothered to wonder how it worked. This _negation_ could be the explanation.

Castiel didn't care.

Burnt, exhausted, and weak, all he wanted was to rest. Anywhere would be fine. Castiel felt around in the _negation_ , snatching at passing messages and prayers. Surely one of them must have a friendly on the other end. Here: someone was performing the Last Rites. Desperately gathering the glimmer to himself, he sensed a familiar, nonhostile presence on the other end beside whoever was reciting the prayers. There was no time to confirm the person's identity; the _negation_ was dragging at his very being. With the last of his strength, Castiel hurled himself in the direction of the prayer's source, felt the crushing pressure as he drilled through the walls of the worlds once more, and tumbled through a blinding light onto a hard stone floor.


	2. Chapter 1

When it came to religion Sam Winchester was never really the fire-and-brimstone type. Still, working the case in Providence, something in him really seized onto the concept of an avenging angel. The idea that somewhere there was an angel watching over this little crime-ridden neighborhood, hunting the human monsters the way he and Dean hunted the supernatural ones--that they were not alone in this permanent war, that there really was something backing them up against all the evil in the world--well. It was not like he did not have faith, but it would have been wonderful to have proof, real _proof_ , of Heaven, of some afterlife that was not Hell.  
  
He should have felt relieved or happy or _something_ , watching Father Reynolds deliver the Last Rites to Father Gregory, but the only emotion he could summon up was disappointment. Sure, the killings would stop. Sure, the victims deserved it. Sure, even the killers were at peace. Everything worked out okay, right? Right. Sam suppressed a sigh as Father Reynolds finished, a bright white light consuming the ghost.  
  
Then he blinked and focused more intently on the light. The ghost was gone, but the light was only growing brighter. Something...something was not right.  
  
A buzz filled the crypt, and Sam felt an odd _pressure_ squeeze around him. The air itself felt heavy and gel-like. He reached for the priest, who was still staring at the light with something like awe. "Father, we probably should--"  
  
There was a CRACK, and the light reached eye-searing proportions. Sam ducked away, pulling the priest with him, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard the sound of massive wings flapping frantically, and the light blinked out.

Father Reynolds made a sound like a stifled gasp, and Sam opened his eyes. A naked man sprawled out on the ground, filthy with grime and blood. "Jesus Christ! Uh, sorry, Father." The two of them hurried to the man's side. He did not appear to be breathing. Sam felt along his wrist, then his neck for a pulse, but to no avail. "I think he's--"  
  
The man gave out a sudden, rattling breath, and began breathing normally. Simultaneously, his pulse started up beneath Sam's hand, as if it had never stopped in the first place. Strange, that. Nearby, the priest got to his feet. "He needs to get to the hospital. And there's a first aid kit in my office--"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'll stay with the guy." As Father Reynolds disappeared down the corridor, Sam rolled the man onto his back, frowning. Something was very wrong here. As he appraised the man's injuries, he found himself wishing he had brought a knife, or more holy water, or _something_ else besides the now-used ingredients for the seance. After a long and varied career in hunting, he could not recall encountering or hearing about anything quite like what had just happened.  
  
The man was tall but slight, with wild dark hair and a bruised, sickly look to him. Blood trickled down the side of his face from a nasty gash on his forehead, mixing with the dust that caked his body. There were terrible burns across his right arm and side, with numerous other smaller scrapes, wounds and burns across the rest of his body. Alien sigils carved into his flesh covered his chest and shoulders. A few were fresh enough to begin to heal over, but the rest had scarred long ago. A large handprint seared over the heart obscured the symbols. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air.  
  
Sam pulled his shirt off, ripped a strip from it and wrapped it around the head wound. The man stirred at the touch, made a soft noise of pain, and rolled onto his side, revealing more burns on his back. "Hey. Hey, listen, everything's going to be all right, okay? Father Reynolds is calling an ambulance. Just stay calm and stay still." He didn't expect the man to live much longer, but he wouldn't let him die alone.  
  
"...maiboddy." The man clutched at his chest. "Needa healurr." His words slurred together.  
  
"They're on their way." Brain-damaged, probably.  
  
"Sgood." The man relaxed. After a moment he added, "Cunns'kreded grund. Thassgood. 'S f'kin _awesome_." He gave a tired grin and patted the floor. "Whurr're we? Iss nor'mer'ka?"  
  
"Uh, what?"  
  
The man slapped the ground in frustration. "Can' get this boddy t' wurk ri'. Th' ties...I needa healurr."  
  
"Whoa, calm down!" Sam pressed a placating hand to the man's shoulder. "You'll hurt yourself if you move around too much. The ambu--the healers are coming."  
  
"Whass takin' so lon', they kin fly. Port. Whatevurr." He was silent for a moment. "There'arnt any wardzz, they kin port."

Years of hunting drove Sam forward. "What happened to you?"  
  
"Bin in Phil'delphya lasttoo yearz. Rezzistince bsieged it, ver' big battle, demons deciddid t' torj th' place. Then th' portin' wardz broke, so I go' th' hell ou'."  
  
"Demons?! You were fighting demons? ...Who were planning to burn down Philadelphia."  
  
"Alreddy burntit, how you thing I got these." The man gestured at his burns. "Hellfurr. Evribuddies prolly dead bainow."  
  
Okay, so the guy was insane, but he had definitely gotten caught up in something supernatural. Hell, maybe he'd snapped from the trauma. "Hey--I'm Sam Winchester. I hunt the things that--"  
  
The man went rigid, then sat bolt upright, looking pissed. "Lissin, asshole--" He broke off as his eyes fixed upon Sam's face. The rage melted away to be replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated terror. And then the man _screamed_.

Sam's eardrums exploded immediately. All along the corridor, the windows shattered. The force of the shout threw him backwards, _hard_ , and his head burst into agony as it cracked against the wall as he slid to the ground. Dizzy with pain, he tried to shield himself from the still-falling glass, with little success. The last thing Sam saw before he passed out was the man, staggering away as fast as he could as if Sam were the devil himself.


	3. Chapter 2

Lights. Bright lights, strong enough to come through his eyelids, and a sense of something _wrong_. He must have gone into stand-by when he had tried to flee. Easy prey, especially for something like Sam. But this was not prison; there were no wards. Comfortable bed, soft sheets--he hadn't felt anything like this in ages.  
  
Castiel opened his eyes to find himself in a hospital room. A good hospital room, not like the shabby clinics that serviced most of the world these days. Which meant that someone had taken him to one of the strongholds of humanity, like San Francisco or Singers or Mexico City. He must have been mistaken for a human if they'd brought him here instead of a healer outpost. Given his condition, he couldn't fault them--  
  
The world was _missing_.  
  
Castiel stretched out his consciousness, searched frantically for a landmark, _anything_. And yes, there was the world, floating at the edge of his senses, but he could not even locate himself, much less any of the billions of people on the planet. Billions! A full six billion swarming across the earth, bargaining at the bazaar and chasing after buses and falling in love! Castiel sank back into the gloriously soft bed, baffled. Now that he thought about it, Sam had not felt like Sam. He knew the feel of the Antichrist's aura all too well. But the Sam in the church was...normal. Castiel had taken him for some random human until he had gotten a good look at the other's face.  
  
Perhaps it was a vision of some sort? But this reality encompassed the world. Only an archangel could make such a good copy of life, and he could not imagine why any of them would go to all that effort for him. Castiel racked his brains. Modern hospital, six billion people, normal Sam... Perhaps he had been thrown back in time? The idea seemed ludicrous. Time was not fluid on Earth. But then, he hadn't been on Earth, had he? He had been in the _negation_. Perhaps time was malleable there as it was in Heaven and Hell? It seemed the only possible answer. For now, he'd have to work on the assumption that somehow he had been thrown back several years, back before Azazel had possessed John Winchester. Which meant...which meant that he was one of the strongest creatures on Earth at the moment.  
  
The Devil's Gate in Montana had not been opened yet and the Seals remained unbroken. So none of the truly powerful demons had escaped from Hell yet, nor had the angels begun to walk the Earth once more. Only a handful of demons polluted the Earth at the moment, and almost all of them would be run-of-the-mill types. In fact, Castiel doubted that (aside from Azazel) any of them were strong enough to color their eyes white instead of black. Nor would any of the special children had really come into their own yet. Easy pickings, all of them, for something like him.  
  
His fingers curled into the sheets. It was impossible to change the past. But then, he had seen a number of impossible things before. He'd seen the upper ranks of Heaven become incompetant and corrupt; he'd seen humanity break free from the control of Heaven and resist the forces of Hell; he'd seen a man rescue an angel from the deepest sanctum of Heaven. And after all the lines he had crossed and rules he had broken to save the world, he had no right now to stop at another pesky "impossible."  
  
Castiel swung his legs out of bed, pulled the IV from his arm. There was work to be done, and the sooner finished, the better. He needed to find the Colt. He needed to kill Azazel. He needed to execute the special children. And, if all else failed, he needed to warn the Winchesters about the future.  
  
First, though, he needed to renew the bindings that held him to this body. Already parts were responding poorly to his commands, with disintegration setting in at the very edges. Castiel stumbled from the room, using a minimal amount of power to render himself unnoticeable to passerby. As he moved quietly through the corridors, he marveled at their occupants. These people took their safety for granted! They were actually _fat_ with prosperity! It was extraordinarily bizarre. Shaking his head at the wonder of it all, Castiel snatched a scalpel from a passing tray of surgical tools and ducked into a bathroom.  
  
Fortunately, it was empty. Castiel pulled off his hospital gown and ripped away the bandages across his chest. Apparently the doctors had tried to sew closed the broken sigils, but thankfully their efforts had not interfered with the binding spells even more. Someone could walk in at any moment, so he had to move fast. Deflection was thin protection; even these peacetime civilians would notice a man carving occult symbols into his flesh. At least scalpels were made for delicate work.  
  
Squinting at his reflection, Castiel carefully redrew the broken sigils, pouring every drop of Grace he had left into the binding spells. He didn't have enough power to fix the keystone runes over his heart, but his work today would buy him the time he needed to regain the strength needed to finish the job. What the hell had Sam planned to do to him? Castiel probed the handprint with a finger and gasped at the pain. The spell had been a dismissal intended to expel him from his vessel in the most violent way possible. With the ties binding him in the body so tightly, the force of the spell would have torn him in two.  
  
Wrapping himself back in the hospital gown (the ties in the back took some effort) Castiel flopped down onto the floor in order to catch his breath. Sam had to be in this hospital, he decided. His true voice would badly hurt even special children new to their powers. And humans would bring the injured from the same site to the same hospital, right? So all he had to do was to go through the hospital until he came close enough to sense Sam. Once the Winchesters checked out, it would become much more difficult to find them. So now was the time to strike, and never mind his weakness. He'd slit Sam's throat and then pass out in a corner somewhere.  
  
An hour and a half later found him panting outside Room 421. Glancing around quickly, Castiel eased the door open and slipped through. As the door swung shut he braced himself against the wall for a moment, dizzy with fatigue. Thankfully, the room was empty. Sam himself appeared to be asleep. Clenching the scalpel in his fist, Castiel stumbled across the room to the bed. Just a few more steps. A few more steps, and he would cleanse the world of this thing.  
  
The door swung open.  
  
Oh shit.  
  
Footsteps across the floor before a force slammed him against the wall, twisting his arms behind his back and squeezing the scalpel out of his hand. And a voice, low and rough against his ear: "Who the hell are you and what are you doing to my brother?" A hand curled in his hair and cracked his head against the wall. "Huh? You one of Gordon's friends?'  
  
It was Dean. Of course it was Dean, and despite the ache threatening to bring him to his knees, Castiel found himself grinning like an idiot. "Dean," he managed to get out. "I--It's been so long--" He cut himself off. This Dean didn't know him, not yet. He'd fix that. "Okay, I know this looks bad--"  
  
"No shit, Sherlock! Only reason I haven't gutted you is because we're in public." The grip around his arm tightened. "Now you tell me who you are or I'll cut you open anyway."  
  
Buttons. It always came back to pushing the right buttons. Castiel licked his lips. "Don't you ever wonder what Azazel--Yellow-eyes--was doing in your brother's room that night?" Silence at his ear. "He wasn't after your mother. He was after Sam. He fed his blood to your brother, and when your mother interrupted he killed her."  
  
Dean whipped him away from the wall and threw him to the ground. Too weak to rise, Castiel sprawled on the floor until he felt the contents of a bottle upended upon him. Holy water. He rolled over and sat up to find a pistol thrust in his face. "Who-- _what_ the hell are you?" Dean demanded.  
  
"Not a demon, for starters," Castiel rasped. "I'm a friend." He'd save the angel bit for later.  
  
"Like hell!"  
  
"I'm serious. You and me, we've got the same goal: putting Yellow-eyes down."  
  
"No, not really. My number one goal is keeping my family safe. You? Are a threat. Now get out of here. Next time I see you, I'm putting a bullet in your head."  
  
"You know something's wrong with your brother, Dean. Sam gets premonitions, right? He gets a migraine and suddenly starts seeing the future. Maybe you've already met one other person like him, Sandra Weiss. Let me tell you, what you've seen so far, it's just the beginning.  
  
"Sam is going to go insane. All of the special children do, it's the demon blood in them. Your brother is going to become a monster and you will have to put him down. I'm sorry, I truly am. But I think Sam would rather die human than a thing."  
  
Dean cocked his pistol. "So you are one of Gordon's buddies," he hissed. "I shoulda shot him when I had the chance."  
  
Time to pull out the big guns. "In a little while, you'll run into your father when you look into the death of a man named Daniel Elkins," Castiel said. Dean paled, shock rippling through his soul. "Together you'll find a very special gun that can kill anything and your family will hunt down the demon that killed your mother. It all goes wrong, Dean! Yellow-eyes possesses your father, he takes you and Sam prisoner, and he breaks you in ways you can't begin to imagine. You sell your soul for Sam's freedom, but it's too late. By the time you get pulled out of Hell, Sam is fucking demons and murdering anyone who gets in his way."  
  
Dean swallowed, his knuckles white against the gun. "How do you know that, no one knows..." He swallowed. Castiel gazed up at Dean through his lashes, reading the hunter's soul like a book. Rage, anxiety, desperation, and not a little fear. "You're lying. No one gets out of Hell, not once they've gone downstairs."  
  
What an odd detail on which to focus. He was grasping at straws, Castiel supposed. He gave Dean a small smile. "It happens on very rare occasions."   
  
"Yeah? What kind--"  
  
The door swung open. Castiel twisted around to see a nurse come in with a cart. "We just got the results from the MRI, Mr. Connor--what on earth?"  
  
"This man broke into the room with a scalpel, Nurse...Jennifer, right?" Dean smiled, face full of charm and hands tucked behind his back. The nurse dimpled. "I found him right by my brother's bed. I doubt he had anything pleasant in mind, so if you could just..." The nurse pressed a red button by the door, undoubtedly summoning security. "Thank you, Jennif--can I call you Jenny?"  
  
"Sure thing." Nurse Jenny searched through the instruments on her cart before producing a hypodermic needle.  
  
Castiel's eyes widened at the sight. He shook his head to clear away the bad memories. "Please don't," he said. "I won't resist."  
  
And then, shockingly, Dean hoisted him up by his armpits. "Let me give you a hand, Jenny." Castiel staggered forward and pressed his face against Dean's chest, unable to resist. It felt so good to be in Dean's arms again, that he forgot about the needle until he felt a prick in his backside and the flow of a sophoric into his bloodstream. Weak as he was, he could not resist the drug's effects. The world spun away into darkness.


	4. Chapter 3

Castiel woke up in restraints. The doctors had used some sort of strong plastic to tie his wrists to the bars on his bed. To his delight, the ties easily tore when he pulled them. His strength was returning. Already he could feel his Grace repairing the damage dealt by the explosions. The hellfire would be a little more tricky, but he could deal with it. What he could really use, Castiel decided, was enough holy water in which to bathe, so he could disinfect the tainted burns.  
  
The real question was what to do about the Winchesters. Castiel had no idea how much time had passed since his confrontation with Dean, but he guessed it was enough for them to check out of the hospital. Even if they hadn't, Dean would be on guard for him. Despite his growing strength, Castiel did not feel ready to take on the hunter just yet. He wasn't certain if he could put people to sleep yet, and a proper fight would quickly attract attention. A frontal assault was useless, he decided. Best to wait until the middle of the night and hope the Winchesters did not leave before then.  
  
After a while a nurse came in with forms to fill out, only to make noise when he found that he had broken his restraints and torn off his wrappings. So then he had to endure humans fussing over him for a full hour as they reapplied ointments and bandages and all the other things mortal treatments had required. They insisted on asking all sorts of personal information for their precious forms, too. Castiel had always been a little fuzzy on the methods of human doctors. Now he was learning far too much for his own taste. But he peaceably accepted their attentions and ate the food they insisted on feeding to him (the latter part, he grasped, was very important in human healing). He had obeyed sillier mores before. When the humans finally left, Castiel sank back into his bed, relishing the time he had before he made his strike.  
  
Nearly an hour later, the door swung open. Startled, he looked up to find Dean Winchester hovering just over the threshold. Castiel brightened. "It's you. Please, come in."  
  
Dean regarded him with a canny eye, then hesitantly moved to stand by the bed, his hands clenching and unclenching. "I talked to a couple of nurses about you," he said after a moment. "I'm guessing 'Castiel Winchester' isn't your real name."  
  
"Castiel is. I don't have a last name."  
  
"Yeah? What kind of name is that?"  
  
"A holy one."  
  
Silence fell again as Dean looked him over, checking for...Castiel could not say for sure. Eventually the hunter said, "Show me your chest."  
  
Castiel blinked. "Sure, let me--" Before he could break the restraints, Dean reached back to yank free the hospital gown's ties and pull it down. Castiel flushed and looked away from Dean.  
  
Dean studied the sigil layout. Then he pulled up a chair and sat down, folding his arms. "You're the guy from the church."  
  
It took Castiel a second to understand the meaning of his words. "Sam has woken up?"  
  
"Oh, he's been awake since yesterday, he just hasn't been coherent," Dean barked. "You know, I thought you were some crazy hunter, maybe a psychic.  But hunters don't appear out of thin air in a burst of light. Or blow out people's eardrums and a whole crypt's worth of windows. So what are you? One of the special kids?"  
  
"No!" Castiel snapped. He busied himself by fixing the gown, but in a few moments he had to face the question again. "It's complicated. But that doesn't matter. Like I said, I'm a friend."  
  
"Bullshit! You came at my brother with a scalpel!" Dean leaned forward. "The way I see it, friends are honest with each other. About the big stuff, at least. You want to be bestest friends with me? Put your money where your mouth is."  
  
“I’m an angel of the Lord,” Castiel said helplessly, and then, just to get it out of the way, added, “From the future.” Dean threw his head back and laughed. "I'm serious, Dean! How do you think I know so much about you? I know your whole life. Your mother used to sing 'Hey Jude' to you when she put you to bed. Your brother made the amulet you wear and gave it to you on Christmas Eve in 1991. You lost your virginity to a girl named Sally when you were fourteen and you learned to drive a year later. The most important thing to you is your family, but the three of you split up after Sam left for college, and now that you've got Sam back you think that everything is going to be sunshine and pie. It's not going to work." Castiel braced himself on the railing and reached out for Dean, only for the hunter to jerk away from his touch. Unsurprising, but it still hurt to see Dean look at him so coldly. "Let me help you. I will tell you what Azazel plans to do in the future, places, dates, everything. We can set up an ambush. We can even save Sam. If Azazel gets his hands on him, it's all over."  
  
Dean regarded him for a moment, face and soul unreadable. Then he said, "Let me ask you something, Marty McFly. What year do you think you landed in?"  
  
Castiel cocked his head at the question. "2005, maybe 2006."  
  
"It's 2007." Dean sat back with a smile as the news sunk in. "Your information? Is pure, unadultered shit. That stuff with my dad, that happened last year. And funnily enough, me'n'Sam have been doing just fine till now."  
  
"No, that's not true, that' can't be true," Castiel burst out. "Dean, this is too cruel for you--" Dean pointed to the display on the machine connected to Castiel. Beneath a group of mysterious numbers and abbreviations glowed the date: 03.07.2007.  
  
The world crumbled.  
  
He...  
  
He did not belong here. Would never belong here. Wherever "here" was. This beautiful, peaceful world, it did not have his family in it, the brothers and sisters who had defied the will of Heaven when he spread word of their superiors' intentions. It did not have the humans, brilliant and bright in their ferocity, standing strong against incomprehensible horrors. It did not have Dean, his Dean, _his_ Dean. Whom he had rescued from Hell and who had rescued him from Heaven.  
  
Castiel had lost his home before. On the day he decided to rebel, he resigned himself to exile or (more likely) death. Even after the Resistance had negotiated a truce with the orthodox angels, he had known that any permanent treaty would ban him from Heaven. That, Castiel could live with. He had found a home among the friends he had made on Earth. This time, he had nothing.  
  
No, that wasn't quite right. He had _a_ Dean, a Dean similar to his Dean in many ways. Less broken for sure, but with the same fundamental goodness shining in his soul. This Dean hated him, but he was the closest thing to a home Castiel had left. This Dean--  
  
This Dean, Castiel suddenly realized, had walked out the door some time ago.


	5. Chapter 4

It was gratifying to ruin the day of the monster who had hurt Sam. Dean had felt a stab of vicious satisfaction as the creature slumped back in his bed and stared at the wall. And stared. And stared. No tears, no yelling--just stared, mouth slightly open. The hand on the railing slowly curled into a fist, crumpling the metal almost absently. After a moment, he started trembling.  
  
It was pretty freaky. Dean had seen a lot of crazy stuff in his line of work, but there was something unnerving about the guy. The monsters he had killed usually acted pretty human right up until they ripped people's throats out. This guy? Not so much. Oh, he got the basics of humanity down enough to fool Dean into thinking he was just another fuck-up at first. But right now he was uncanny, seemed barely conscious of his own body. Even monsters didn't act like that.  
  
After ten minutes of silence, Dean left for Sam's. Overall, it had been an unsatisfying encounter. He had only decided to pay the monster a visit after Sam had explained what had happened in the crypt. It didn't take a genius to connect the man he had seen with the man with the scalpel. And, well, Dean had wanted to know where the guy had learned all that stuff about Dad. Pretty stupid, in retrospect. Lots of monsters were mindreaders; this guys just dug deeper than most. He still didn't know what the guy was, but he'd figure it out eventually.  
  
When he opened the door to his brother's room, Sam looked up from a book. "Oh. Hey, Dean." He frowned. "Did something happen?"  
  
"The guy from the crypt, they're keeping him in this hospital," Dean explained. "I paid him a visit to--" He broke off at the frustrated scowl on Sam's face.  
  
"Dean, I--I can't hear you."  
  
Fuck. Dean kept forgetting the deafness. Or, more exactly, he just didn't want to accept it. He dug into his jacket for his notepad and wrote out a summary of his conversation with the monster.  
  
It took several pages. Sam paged through them, a frown wrinkling his forehead. "This makes no sense. He's a super-strong psychic with a banshee scream? I've never heard of anything remotely like that."  
  
 _Tell me about it_ , Dean scribbled.  
  
"I don't think he's pulling all of this stuff out of your mind, though. The stuff about Dad, sure, but he was talking about demons burning down Philadelphia before I told him who I was." Sam leaned forward. "I think he knows something."  
  
 _He read your mind, dumbass  
Anyway no one burned down Philly it would've been on the TV._  
  
"No. This guy didn't freak out till he looked me in the face, and when he did it was like he'd seen some monster from his past. Like--well, like the way we'd look at Yellow-eyes. I don't think he would have spent all that time asking for a doctor if he'd read my mind and known who I was."  
  
Oh Lord. How could his brother be so smart and still be so stupid? _Mindreader , Sammy! The simplest answer is usually the right one._  
  
"There's more here and you know it, Dean! Look--" Sam flipped through Dean's explanation until he found the page he was looking for. "Here, you said he called Yellow-eyes 'Azazel.' That's big. Dad spent more than twenty years trying to find Yellow-eyes and he never found out the demon's name. This guy--" He flipped through more pages. "--Castiel--he drops the name like it's nothing. We should look up Azazel, Castiel too while we're at it. Hell, maybe you could..." Sam hesitated for a moment, then continued, "...You could talk to him again, see what he thinks is gonna happen."  
  
 ** _NO_**  
  
"Oh, come on! It can't hurt!"  
  
 _ **NO**_  
  
"Just in case, Dean! We gotta be prepared for whatever Yellow-eyes has got planned for us. We have to follow up on every lead! And he likes you, right?"  
  
 _ **NO  
  
NO  
  
NO**_  
  
 _We're leaving the hospital tomorrow and if I see that guy again I'm gonna kill him_ **** _PERIOD_  
  
Sam glowered at him, clearly on the verge of one of his patented bitchfests. "It wouldn't kill you just to talk to him. It's not like he's gonna come after _you_ with a scalpel."  
  
Tired of rewriting NO again and again, Dean shook his head this time, throwing a few negative gestures for good measure.  
  
Sam sank back onto his pillows, scowling. "God, Dean, sometimes you just..." He threw up his hands in frustration, picked up the book, and buried his face in it. Normally this would be the cue for Dean to leave--Sam's snits usually lasted several hours unless he got his way--but after that monster tried to slit his brother's throat, Dean didn't feel comfortable leaving him alone for an extended period of time. So he sat back, turned on the TV, and ignored the evil looks Sam sent him over his book until the nurses came to chase him out.  
  
Things went pretty smoothly the next day. Sure, the doctors squawked on about remaining concussive symptoms, but eventually they admitted that Sam was well enough to go home. That was more than enough for Dean, who wanted to get Sam as far away from the monster as possible. Sam continued to sulk, right up until he nearly fell over onto his face from walking.  
  
 _U want me to get a wheelchair?_  
  
"No!" Sam massaged his eyes.  "Why aren't my legs working right?"  
  
 _Maybe the angel induced concussion?_  
  
Sam glared at him.  
  
Aside from that little incident, everything else continued to go fine. The day remained clear and the highway mostly empty as they drove to Bobby's place. Sam spent most of the time dozing. Secretly, Dean suspected that the concussion was still causing his brother problems, but it was nothing a little rest could fix. The deafness was the issue. Sammy would never hear again, the doctors had said. So much for hunting, then. A hunter without all of his senses was a dead hunter.  
  
On the brighter side of things, at least he could play his music as loud as he liked without any whining from the shotgun.  
  
Sam bitched when they passed the turn off for Philadelphia--he wanted to see if there was anything suspicious going on--but Dean planned to head straight to Bobby's. He wasn't taking any chances; the next time the monster tried to kill Sammy, he'd know how to gank the thing. They stopped at a motel somewhere outside of Akron. "There's a burger place up the way," Dean began as his brother roused from sleep, remembered, and shut his mouth with a scowl before reaching for the notepad. Christ, this would take some getting used to. _U want something to eat?_  
  
"You get yourself something, I'm really not hungry," Sam said, swinging the car door open and stumbling towards their room, his bag dangling from his shoulder. "My head is killing me. Just wanna lie down."  
  
 _U need a painkiller?_  
  
"I've already taken several, Dean," Sam said in his obnoxious I'm-a-big-boy-look-how-independent-I-am voice. Dean shrugged and headed back out to the Impala, buckled himself in, reached to turn the car on--and sighed, hand dropping to the emergency break. No more talking in the car; no more banter; no more Sam, _hunting_. He'd probably go back to law school and marry some pretty girl who spoke sign language and go live a boring life in Boringsville, California. And yeah, maybe that was a good thing. That was what Sam wanted, right? Right.  
  
No more Sam, _hunting_.  
  
Dean stuck the key in the ignition.  
  
"Excuse me," came a voice right by his ear.  
  
Dean leaped about a foot in the air--or would have, if he hadn't been sitting down. "I--you--how-- _What are you doing in my c_ _ar?!_ "  
  
Castiel tilted his head, looking for all the world like a teacher dealing with a particularly dull student. "Riding with you, of course. I got in while you were in the hospital."  
  
Dean went for his gun.  
  
When he finished firing, Castiel frowned at him, headshots vanishing within seconds. "You'll destroy your hearing if you keep doing that."  
  
That was the final fucking straw. Dean climbed out of the car, swung the back door open, and dragged the monster (still in a _hospital gown_ , for crying out loud) outside to slam him against the side of the car. "What the hell is wrong with you? You try to kill my brother, you feed me some bullshit story about Yellow-eyes, and now you, you spend the whole day sitting in the back of my car waiting, what, for Sam to leave? What do you _want_ from me?!"  
  
The other man visibly wilted under the barrage. "I wanted to come with you. Please."  
  
Dean backed up, shaking his head. "You've got to be kidding me." If he could get to the trunk--but no way he could get it open in time. If he could just keep Castiel focused on himself, maybe the nutjob wouldn't remember to go after Sam. Dean pointed away from the car. "Get out of here. Now. I don't _ever_ want to see you again."  
  
"No. No, _please_." Castiel had a distinctly desperate look in his eye. "I--Look, I made a mistake, I thought this was home--but it's not. And I can't go home, can't ever see _him_ \--You're the closest thing I've got, you're the only thing that resembles home, please, I've got nowhere else to go. I'm begging you." The guy was trembling again. He wrapped his arms around himself, looking miserable. "I'll be useful, I swear. I was made to fight the things you hunt, okay? And--and my upkeep's real low, I don't need to eat or sleep, a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, that's all I need, I _swear_. I won't hurt Sam. That was a mistake, coming into his room like that, I thought he was--but he isn't. I'll help you find Azazel, I mean Yellow-eyes, help you find a way to kill him, just please, please. Let me stay."  
  
Any other time, Dean would have taken this guy for a victim. But he remembered: Sam crumpled on the hospital bed, looking dead. Dean shook his head. "Whoever you're looking for, it's not me."  
  
Castiel's eyes fluttered to the ground. "I can fix Sam's ears," he said quietly.  
  
 _That_ got Dean's attention.  
  
"Bullshit."  
  
"No, really. You saw how fast I fixed those bullet wounds. I'm too weak to do anything fancy, but I can handle the little things. It wouldn't take much effort to fix Sam--your brother's ears." There was just the slightest hesitation over the word brother.  
  
He was lying. He _had_ to be lying. The doctors said that the damage was permanent. Only, this guy had all these other crazy abilities. Why _couldn't_ he magically fix people up? If there was the slightest chance... Dean held up his hand. "Okay. Okay, look, I'm gonna head inside and talk to Sam, and you--you stay right there. Don't even think about moving. If I see you going off someplace I'm--I'll kill you. Seriously. Okay?" Castiel nodded silently. Dean headed around the car and into the room, looking over his shoulder every so often to make sure this lunatic didn't go anywhere.  
  
For all his nonsense about talking to the crazy guy with delusions of angelhood, Sam was (understandably) less-than-excited about letting said crazy guy near him. "I've never heard of any magic that heals people. Well, at least not any without major consequences. It's probably some sort of trick."  
  
 _Don't you want your hearing back?_  
  
"Yeah, but I'm not gonna sell my soul for it!"  
  
 _He's not a demon I threw holy water on him nothing happened_.  
  
"Holy water didn't work on Yellow-eyes!"  
  
 _Something like Yelloweyes wouldn't let us live_  
Also he didn't try anything in the car why would he do something now?  
  
"Look, just get out the rock salt, just in case."  
  
When they went outside Castiel was standing right where Dean left him, leaning against the Impala. Dean opened the trunk and pulled out a shotgun, expecting the monster to jump him at any moment, but Castiel did not stir until Sam approached him. The two stared at each other like facing down a rabid wolf, and then Castiel pressed two fingers to Sam's foreheads. There was a small flash of light, and then both staggered back. Sam actually rubbed his ears, a startled expression on his face. Castiel supported himself on the side of the car, then slowly slid to the ground. Dean--Dean just stared. "You alright, Sammy?"  
  
"I'm fine." Sam seemed astounded at the concept. "Even the headache is gone."  
  
Dean looked down at Castiel just in time to see the man spit out a mouthful of blood. "You--uh--need a hand?"  
  
"I can't stand," Castiel stated, deadpan.  
  
Dean took one arm, Sam the other, and together they dragged Castiel into the room to deposit him on one of the beds. He passed out immediately. Goddammit, Dean just knew he'd be sleeping on the floor tonight. "So--you still out for dinner?"  
  
"Uh--no, I think I could get something down," Sam said. Translation: Hearing or not, I still don't want to be alone with this guy when he wakes up.  
  
They'd barely moved towards the door when Castiel stirred. "Wait." He pushed himself upright on shaking arms. "Does this mean I can stay?"  
  
Dean fiddled with his shirt. "Look. Me'n'Sam, we're really more of a two-person operation." Castiel opened his mouth, about to protest, but Dean held up a hand to silence him. "But--it sounds like you've got some pretty big problems and, you know, maybe we can help." Castiel closed his mouth, an uncertain expression settling across his face. "Why don't you tell us the whole story, we'll see what we can do."


	6. Chapter 5

Sam could tell they weren't leaving the motel room tonight, so he opened his computer and found a Chinese place nearby that did deliveries. Dean bitched about Chinese food and then asked for the chop suey. Sam put down mixed vegetables for himself and turned to Castiel. "What do you want?"  
  
"I don't eat."  
  
"Everybody eats," Dean said.  
  
"It isn't necessary for me," Castiel said. "I know you have little money."  
  
"Dude, we can cover freaking takeout." Dean looked over to Sam. "Just order the cashew chicken, that's usually good." As Sam made the call, his brother pulled up the single chair in the room and sat down on it backwards to fix Castiel with a look. "Okay. Talk."  
  
"It will sound crazy."  
  
Sam hung up and flopped down onto the other bed. "Try us. We've seen a lot of crazy stuff. Why don't you tell us what you really are?"  
  
"I'm an angel of the Lord." Castiel watched as Sam exchanged looks with Dean. "I know I don't look like much right now, but I'll show you my wings when I'm stronger."  
  
"Yeah? What happened to you?" Dean snarked. "A run-in with a jet engine?"  
  
To Sam's surprise, the corner of Castiel's mouth twitched upwards. "That would have been preferable. I have spent..." He paused, apparently calculating something. "About two years in a prison camp run by demons. It was very unpleasant. In the final days the Resistance--I mean, the armies of humanity--was besieging the city, so the demons decided to burn it down. I escaped in the chaos, but something went wrong and I ended up...here."  
  
"Here." Sam tested the word on his tongue. "What's 'here?'"  
  
"...I think this is a different world from mine," Castiel said, distinctly unhappy. Dean gave a snort of disdain; Sam barely suppressed one of his own. "I _know_ ," he continued. "I wouldn't believe it in your shoes. The situation now--" His eyes flicked over Sam and Dean. "--What we're doing, right now, would have been temporally impossible in my world. You--" He gestured to Dean. "--would be dead, and you--"  
  
"Sam would've gone dark side, you already told me that," Dean interrupted. "I hate to break it to you, but you're freaking delusional."  
  
"Dean!" Good Lord, his brother wouldn't know subtlety if it punched him in the face.  
  
"What? I'm just calling it like it is!"  
  
"I am not delusional," Castiel said fiercely, hands curling in the bedsheets. "I am an angel, and our minds are not malleable like a human's. Give me time and I will prove myself to you."  
  
Dean opened his mouth, presumably to say something obnoxious, but Sam waved him to silence. "Alright. Let me get this straight. You're an angel. From the future. From _another universe_."  
  
"That's right."  
  
"And you want to stay with us because..."  
  
"I think Azazel is running the same plan here that he had back home." He crawled to the edge of the bed. "Stopping him is my top priority. Let me help you."  
  
"Yeah?" Dean snapped. "What makes you so certain?"  
  
"Sam is a special child. Azazel must have fed his blood to Sam in the nursery. You've met other special children, right?"  
  
"A few," Sam said, a little too casually. Demon blood. There was no way to prove Castiel's claims, but it made sense. Why _had_ Yellow-eyes visited his nursery? How did all the special kids get their powers? What tied them to Yellow-eyes? They must have been altered--it was the only logical answer. If it wasn't demon blood, it must be something equally vile. Loathing pooled in his stomach. There was something _sick_ inside him, and he could do nothing about it. Unless... "Is there a way to fix the kids? Drain the demon blood out or--I dunno--?" He gestured, unable to finish the sentence.  
  
"No. It is an intrinsic part of you." Fuck. Sam could feel all those half-suppressed fears bubbling up--his freakishness, his impending insanity, descent into evil and goddammit Castiel was reading his mind right now. He glowered at the man, who shied away.  
  
Casting a worried look to Sam, Dean began, "We're not here to talk about Yellow-eyes--"  
  
"Hold it, I want to hear what he's got to say."  
  
Dean frowned, moved to Sam's bed, and hissed in his ear, "This guy's nuts. You can't believe anything that comes out of his mouth!"  
  
"I know that, Dean!" Sam snapped, louder than he intended. He ratcheted the volume down several notches and continued, "Look, we're following up on every lead we get about Yellow-eyes. _Every_ lead, no matter how crazy."  
  
"Sam, the last lead we had was Gordon going on about a demon war!"  
  
"Okay, so maybe we look into that a bit further. Whatever Yellow-eyes is planning, it's big, and if we stop him before he pulls it off then--you know--" Sam swallowed, painfully aware of the third person in the room. He needed a drink. "--Maybe we can save the special kids."  
  
"You're grasping at straws, Sam," Dean said, but the fight had gone from his eyes.  
  
"I'll do whatever it takes."  
  
Castiel's eyes flicked back and forth between Sam and Dean when they turned back to him. He remained silent until Dean said, "Get on with your story."  
  
"...I am trying to help you," Castiel said in such a deadpan voice that it took Sam a moment to realize that he was frightened.  
  
"We're not going to hurt you," Sam said in his kindest voice.  
  
"Yes. Well." Castiel scooted to the side of his bed to better face the brothers. "Azazel is trying to free Lucifer from Hell. That's a very difficult process, and he needs a human proxy to complete it. That's why he created the special children."  
  
"Lucifer? As in the goddamn Devil?!" Dean exclaimed, right as Sam said, " _A_ proxy? What happens to all the other kids?  
  
"Azazel pits all of 'em against each other. Last one standing gets to start the Apocalypse."  
  
"Yeah--how does he do that, exactly?" Dean demanded. "I mean, what's the proxy supposed to do?"  
  
"There's a heavily warded Hellgate in Montana. Azazel needs it open, but he can't get to it. So the proxy opens up the depths of Hell and swarms of demons get out. The one to remember is Lilith. See, there's sixty-six seals--locks--on Lucifer's cage, but there's hundreds of ways to break them. The last one is Lilith. Lucifer rises when she dies."  
  
The shock of his announcement left Sam speechless. Dean opened his mouth, then closed it after a moment, frowning. In the silence that followed the rap on the door sounded unusually loud. Sam crossed to the door to get the food, paid the deliveryman, and passed out the cartons to their respective owners. They all dug into their cartons without saying another word.  
  
Of course Dean finished first, stuffing his empty carton into the takeout bag before leaning forward. "Alright, Castiel--"  
  
"You can call me Cas."  
  
"Pass, thanks. We were heading to Sioux Falls today to see a friend of ours, Bobby Singer. He's got a pretty big collection of books on hunting. You'll probably find something that will help you figure out how to get home."  
  
That was Dean to the core: ignore the apocalyptic pronouncements and try to pretend everything was going great. "We're gonna spend a couple of days there ourselves, so we'll help you settle in," Sam broke in.  
  
"We are?"  
  
"Yeah, we are." Sam ignored his brother's frown and turned back to Castiel. "You've answered a lot of important questions for us. I'd like to compare your story with the lore Bobby's got."  
  
Castiel gave him a small, uncertain smile. "I'm happy to help, but I haven't finished yet." He fixed his eyes on Dean. "Azazel has plans for you as well."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I end up in Hell, you said that already." Dean crossed his arms. "Fuck that noise. No way I'm selling my soul."  
  
"Even if it was the only way to save your brother?"  
  
Dean's face clouded over. "'Course not," he said, a little too loud and a little too late to be believable.  
  
Even with all the craziness surrounding the special children, even with Yellow-eyes plotting their doom on the sidelines, sometimes the most terrifying thing in Sam's life lately was his brother. Most of the time he seemed normal, all jackass jokes and wannabe coolness, but sometimes the mask slipped and Sam saw pain in his face. Dad's death had hit him hard. "Dean..." His brother looked over him, just a glance, and Sam snapped his mouth shut. They weren't having this discussion now, not in front of a stranger.  
  
Castiel sighed. Stared at Dean until the other met his eyes. "You are righteous, Dean," he said softly, like he was talking to an animal about to bolt. "That makes you _very_ important in the grand scheme of things."  
  
The tension shattered. Dean gave a snort of laughter, and Sam had to bite back a snicker of his own. He loved his brother, but he wouldn't nominate either of them for Man of the Year, much less _righteousness_. "Man, you got me mixed up with someone else."  
  
"You are righteous," Castiel insisted. "The virtue in your soul burns like a bonfire in a field of candles." He dragged a hand through his hair in apparent frustration. "I don't get it. Why can't you recognize your own worth? Every time, I swear--" He broke off with a shake of his head. "Anyway. The first seal on Lucifer's cage is broken when one of the righteous goes to hell. Selling your soul literally means the end of the world."  
  
"We've already established that's not going to happen," Dean snapped. "You coming to Bobby's with us or not?"  
  
"Dean, this is important!"  
  
Dean folded his arms. "With us or not?"  
  
Castiel opened his mouth, then closed it. His eyes flicked to Sam, who kept his face smooth. Despite his insistence of helping the brothers, despite all the information he had given them, Sam could not bring himself to trust this man, much less work with him. Reading their expressions, Castiel slumped in defeat. "With you," he muttered at last.


	7. Chapter 7

Bobby was always glad to see the Winchester boys. They were good hunters and good people, two qualities that didn't necessarily go hand in hand. Problem was, they always brought trouble trailing after them every time they showed up on his doorstep.

This time, trouble was six feet tall, skinny with a too-big T-shirt dangling off of him, and a habit at staring intensely at everything. Literally, _everything_. He was staring out around at all the junked up cars when the door opened, just a few steps behind the boys, and then his head whipped around to look Bobby up and down. Bobby returned the stare. "You wanna tell me who your pal is?"  
  
Sam exhaled shortly, a sigh of long frustration. "It's...kinda a long story." The brothers exchanged glances briefly. "There are a couple of things we need to look up...we were wondering if we could look through your books," Sam continued  
  
The skinny guy said nothing. Just stared.  
  
"Yeah, well, come on in," Bobby said. As the boys gathered in the living room, he ducked into the kitchen to get them a couple of beers. On a hunch he spiked the skinny guy's bottle with a little holy water. Trouble sighed when Bobby handed the beer to him but drank without a complaint. He rarely touched it again during the conversation that followed.  
  
Bobby had been on some pretty bizarre hunts in his time, but this story took the cake. Flashes of light, miracle cures, impossible creatures--apparently Trouble was a monster never mentioned before in hunter lore. He explained himself with the silliest story Bobby had ever heard. "You idjits really expect me to believe this?"  
  
There was a look of mildly constipated frustration on Dean's face. "I know it's ridiculous, but you think we'd've come to you if, you know, if there hadn't been..." He trailed off, gesturing in a futile attempt to convey his thoughts. "All this weird stuff's been happening, and I sure as hell don't know what to make of it. Thought you might have some idea what's going on."  
  
"I know it sounds absurd," Trouble said suddenly. He had barely spoken before, only interrupting to correct the occasional detail. "But you're hunters. You know that the stranger the story is, the more likely it's true. People usually go for the more believable story when they're lying."  
  
"Yeah, and sometimes a moron mistakes a goat for a unicorn," Bobby retorted.  
  
"Just check the lore on Azazel and Lilith, it'll back me up--"  
  
"We already said we'd do that," Sam interrupted, exasperated.  
  
"Even if you're right about Yellow-eyes's name, it doesn't mean the freaking Apocalypse is nigh," Dean added.  
  
"Look, you have to admit that Azazel has something big planned--"  
  
"Will you all shut your mouths for a moment?" Bobby shouted over the rising argument. To his surprise,the boys obeyed. Bobby turned to Trouble. "Listen, why don't you take a walk while I talk things over with the boys," he asked. "Outside. You look like you could use the sunshine." To his mild surprise, the guy got up without a word. A few moments later the front door slammed."Alright, now that he's out of the way, why don't you tell me what _really_ happened."  
  
"We did," Sam said flatly.  
  
"So this guy tries to kill you with some crazy mojo, and now you're trying to _help_ him?"  
  
"Uh. See, uh.." Sam flailed around for an explanation for a few moments before getting out, "Honestly, Bobby, I don't know what else to do with him. He's fixated on us. Well, on Dean." His mouth twisted. "He'll probably hide in the Impala again when we leave."  
  
"So you're trying to dump him in my lap."  
  
"Noooo, we just--" Dean's protest died at Bobby's frown. "Alright. We want him off our hands. I think the first step is figuring out what he is. You got any ideas?"  
  
"My best guess? He's some kind of demigod. Every so often you run into a pagan god hanging around long after the good old days. He doesn't act like one, though. Doesn't seem nearly vain enough, and no god worth his spit would claim to be an angel."  
  
"Maybe it's a survival tactic," Sam suggested. "Like that vampire nest from a couple months back. They were feeding on animals instead of humans," he explained.  
  
"Dude, he blew up a crypt and fed us a bullshit story. That is the worst way to fly under the radar."  
  
"Okay, so he's got an agenda."

"No shit, Sherlock!"  
  
"Whatever Castiel wants, I don't think he's hostile," Sam mused. "He keeled over fixing me. He wouldn't've done that if he was planning to kill us."  
  
"He's terrified of you, Sam. He looks at you like you're a thing."  
  
"Yeah, I know." Sam shifted uncomfortably.  
  
"Sam's right," Bobby said. "Whatever Castiel is, he doesn't mean any harm right now." Every instinct he had screamed against this makeshift solution, but it seemed to be their only option. "You boys are gonna stay here a couple of days anyway. We'll keep an eye on him and figure out what to do from there."  
  
When they told Castiel their decision, he smiled slightly. "Thank you for keeping your promises," he said, deadpan enough that Bobby couldn't tell if he meant to be sarcastic. The boys didn't quite meet his gaze.  
  
When Bobby came downstairs the next morning, he found breakfast waiting on the kitchen table, the dirty dishes cleaned, and a note in small, neat handwriting: _Need to fix myself. Be back in the evening_. He spent the day calling every hunter he knew. When Castiel returned and went straight to the kitchen to fix dinner, Bobby discarded his original conclusion. Pagan gods could be friendly, but they sure as hell didn't do chores.  
  
"Why are you doing this," Dean demanded when they sat down to eat.  
  
Castiel looked baffled at the question. "You need to eat."  
  
"I can feed myself, thanks. Ow!"  
  
"What Dean means," Sam said, kicking his brother under the table, "is _thank you_."  
  
Dean couldn't stop picking at Castiel that week. Not from any provocation, but for what he represented. Bobby and the boys spent most of the day picking through demonologies and Middle Eastern folklore, and more and more it seemed like Yellow-eyes and Azazel were the same demon. And if that much of Castiel's story was true, then other parts might be as well. As the week went on Dean spent increasing amounts of time working on cars in the yard or looking for new work, calling Sam and Bobby a bunch a geeks, saying all that research would send them to the looney bin. Bobby put up with his bitching for a full day before putting the boy in his place. Every man had his own way of dealing with bad news, but the least he could do was to keep himself from inconveniencing other folks.  
  
As for the person responsible for starting this mess, he stationed himself in a living room corner with some of the oldest, most esoteric texts in the house and only stirred to get other books. Sometimes he sat for more than an hour, staring into space. And every morning breakfast was waiting for Bobby when he came downstairs, the kitchen cleaner than it had been in years. The laundry turned up clean when he left it out, too.  
  
One morning Bobby woke up in time to catch Castiel frying bacon in the kitchen. "Morning."  
  
Castiel didn't turn around. "Morning. You're up early."  
  
"Woke up early." Off to the side, toast popped out of the toaster, floated away and onto a plate at a gesture. Bobby had never seen anything like this creature before; angel was as good a name as Bigfoot. "You were right about Yellow-eyes."  
  
" _Thank_ you." Castiel dumped the bacon onto a second tape, the burner flickering out untouched.  
  
Just because one part of his story was true didn't mean that rest was true as well. But Bobby knew deep in his gut that something big was on the horizon. Suddenly the end of the world didn't seem so impossible. "We're on the verge of the Apocalypse?"  
  
"More like the verge of the verge. Azazel's got some big hoops to jump through. But he's smart as fuck and has had ages to plan." Castiel brought the dishes to the table, then stood back, folding his arms and frowning. "Things are so different here. What he's doing to the children here, it's nothing like what happened at home. Even the children are different."  
  
"Yeah? What happened?"  
  
"He picked a favorite and pointed him in the direction of the other special kids. Once a special child accepts his abilities, he grows exponentially more powerful. Once the proxy got started, he never lost his momentum."  
  
Great. Some day some souped-up jackass might come knocking down doors looking for Sam. Business as usual for the Winchesters, Bobby supposed. "You say you're an angel." Castiel nodded. "Where's Heaven in all this?  
  
"Expect that Heaven wants the Apocalypse. They did in my world." There was no mistaking the bitterness in the angel's voice. "I've tried to contact my siblings here, but no one's picking up the phone. It's possible that they are reluctant to get involved--we are strongly forbidden from interference on Earth until the Apocalypse--but it's better to assume that the archangels couldn't give a flying fuck about humanity."  
  
"They don't--And you're only mentioning this _now_?!" Bobby slammed his palms down on the table. He had half a mind to throttle the other man.  
  
Castiel flopped down in one of the chairs, suddenly looking tired. "You didn't believe my story. I thought I'd wait until you'd listen to me. I'll tell the Winchesters before they leave."  
  
"You're staying here?" Bobby asked, incredulous. Watching Castiel watch the boys, he had assumed the angel would insist on going with them, possibly by force.  
  
Castiel dropped his eyes to the table. "...I will leave if you want," he said after a moment, voice low.  
  
"Oh, pull yourself out of your pity party," Bobby said grumpily. "You can stay here." And to his surprise, he meant it. "On one condition: you're gonna find a way to kill Yellow-eyes that doesn't involve a gun we don't have anymore. You waltz in here known answers to questions it took John Winchester years to learn to ask, I figure you know how to put down demons permanently. We're not sitting back on our asses waiting for the Apocalypse. I don't care if you need to build the damn Colt from scratch-- _you're_ finding a way to kill that bastard. Deal?"  
  
The angel cocked his head, examining Bobby with a canny eye. "Deal."


End file.
